It was an idiotic thing to say. But Glory didn’t feel as insulted by it as she ought to be. She stared at the door. Lucas’s words had been so . . . final. ‘Quite the little gentleman,’ Troy observed. ‘Or are you sticking to your original estimation of him as a “pillock”?’ ‘He’s only a pillock some of the time. And he’s doing his best.’ Troy rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me. The pair of you had an all-night pyjama party, bonding over your dysfunctional family life and the Joy of Fae.’ Then his expression turned serious. ‘You need to watch yourself, Glory. Lucas might be a witch, and he might be on our side – for the moment. But he’s got twelve generations of inquisitor in his blood. He’s not our kind.’ Glory resented this on a number of levels. ‘I don’t care what “kind” he is or he ain’t. I just want him to get his part of the job done, and for us to do ours. That’s all. Then we can get on with our lives.’ ‘Our lives have changed,’ Troy said, and looked more serious again.
